Once in a while, book clubs invite an author to visit. God prefers anonymity, so she always declines. Not me. Often, it’s a nice experience, but on rare occasions, things get awkward. Members who’ve read only the title and back cover take the opportunity to share views tangential or even hostile to the essence of the book. Others fawn over the author, more focused on affiliation than analysis.
And speaking of awkward, I know of a romance writer who finagled an invitation to join her neighborhood book club. Because she published under a pen name, no one realized who she was. When it was her turn to choose a book, she held up her latest bodice-ripper, the slick cover burbling with cleavage and low-slung jeans. Everyone burst into laughter, thinking this was a joke. The author stomped out, never to return. They did not read the book.
“Well, they should have,” God says. “Romance is a billion-dollar industry.”
I roll my eyes. “I prefer murder mysteries. They do less damage.”
God leers at me. “Ah, come on. What’s wrong with a little erotic fantasy? Steamy scenes, orgasmic encounters, soulmates finally licking or sucking just the right spots…”
“Stop!” I interrupt. I don’t enjoy talking about sex with God. “Could we change the subject?”
“Sure,” God says. “But what is the subject?”
I pause and then admit, “I don’t know. And you know I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should talk about who gets invited,” God says.
“To what? Book clubs?”
“No. To anything. You all want to belong, don’t you?”
“Not necessarily. We want to belong to our tribe. People who look and think like we do, believe what we believe, read the same books, and share similar realities.”
“Then don’t invite me!” God snorts. She pulls on her turtleneck sweater. “You’re strangling yourselves. Loosen up, you judgmental little speck.”
“Don’t worry,” I snap. “You are definitely not invited. And don’t call me speck.”
Evening is approaching. The daylight remaining is not straightforward.
“Speck. Dot. Flicker. Flash. You realize that like rain, fire and light do not discriminate, right? So, instead of speck, how about I call you light of the world?”
This is a seductive but perilous proposal. God is the Ultimate Refractive Substance. As light passes through God, it splays and changes directions. That’s why stars twinkle. If I agree, I will be bent and fractured. My membership anywhere will be in question.
“Let me think on that,” I say, hedging.
We curl up on the couch and continue reading our book club’s latest selection, Sun House, by David James Duncan. As usual, I’m a little behind.
Short visits with an honest God 